As if reading my mind, she says in staccato English, ‘You are in the right place, the girls are young here.’ She looks me up and down. ‘Nothing happens in this house here. You will be going to hotels with the men.’ Right. Maybe then I’ll get my chandeliers.

You can leave at any time, Sammy. Just take it step by step and if it gets too much for you, get up and go. Remember that.

I don’t eat a bite; the woman looks on. After a few minutes of silent protest, I’m shown to my bedroom: a twin room, with valance sheets with scalloped edges hanging low from the two single beds. There are swirly quilt covers, purples and pinks, and shell-pink walls. The light that hangs from the ceiling is a darker pink and stencilled with flowers: an upside-down flower pot. Not exactly a man’s room then. This is like being in boarding school, except it’s not quite Enid Blyton land. Where are the rolling green fields, the vaulted ceilings, the posh uniforms and the girls who speak with marbles in their mouth? My new madame, who I pretend is French and is called Solange, tells me the other girls are all asleep and it might be a good idea to get some rest. Kathleen had told her I was ready.

‘Tonight you will work, yes?’

This is beyond surreal.

‘Help yourself to anything you need in the kitchen,’ she says, as she moves towards the door.

‘What about my roomie?’ I gesture to the empty bed.

‘Someone new will be arriving in the next few days,’ she says, before disappearing through the door.

My brain is buzzing and banging about, and I’m desperate to go outside, get some air, move my legs around. As I walk to the front door, the woman appears – like vapour, so soundless it’s spooky – and asks where I’m going.

‘For a walk,’ I tell her.

She shakes her head. ‘That won’t be possible.’

‘Why the hell not, there’s no one around here, surely?’

‘There are some families here,’ she says.

‘Oh, come on … I can’t stay here and not be allowed go out.’

These are the rules, she tells me.

‘So what happens if I decide I want to leave?’

She looks directly at me. ‘You owe a debt to Kathleen and to me, and I will tell you when that is paid off.’

You’ve got to be kidding me. Fuck Hatchet, fuck this one standing in front of me, it’s my body and if I choose to sell it, it’s my money, and I tell her this.

‘You will do well,’ she says. ‘You will earn well here. Out there, it is ugly.’